


Troubled Waters

by walkalittleline



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fjorclay Week 2020, M/M, fjorclay week, merman Fjord, some mention of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkalittleline/pseuds/walkalittleline
Summary: Day 3: Fairytale/Mythology
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93





	Troubled Waters

He’s not sure what drives him to that part of the woods when he goes out that morning. It could be that the sun is particularly warm that day and the thought of sitting on the bank of the river and letting his toes dip in the cool water sounds appealing. Or that there’s a certain stretch of grassy bank that tends to be a good spot for spring onions this time of year. Or maybe it’s just fated for him to be there. He attributes a lot of things to fate. He doesn’t believe in coincidences.

The air smells of fresh grass and wet earth when he reaches the bank of the river, where it snakes its way gleaming and twisting through the trees on its way to the ocean over a day’s journey southwest. He’s never been much for the ocean himself, prefers these small, contained bodies of water where he can see the flash of fish and rounded stones at the bottom and wade across with his staff without getting higher than his knees wet. 

The water is pleasantly cool when he tugs off his boots and rolls up his cuffs to let his feet dip below the surface, his basket sitting higher up the bank so as not to fall in, now full of little white bulbs with their long pale green stems. He’s even managed to find a few young mushrooms and cress, tucked in alongside the onions and bound for soup and cress sandwiches using the bread he’d baked the night before. He leans back on the bank and closes his eyes, smiling at the warmth of the dappled sunlight on his face and the sound of birdsong filling the air.

He jolts out of his near-doze at the sound of a loud splash from somewhere down river, just around where it bends through the trees and opens up wider, deeper, where the fish are more plentiful but there’s little in the way of forageable food. Caduceus frowns, dusting himself off as he stands, scoops up his basket, and walks carefully through the trees in the direction of the sound. 

Poking his head around the gnarled trunk of an old oak, he scans the still rippling surface of the river and the grassy bank, eyes widening at the sight of a man who looks to be unconscious lying halfway out of the water. He takes a few tentative steps closer, the grass soft under his bare feet, and realizes with a start that it’s not a man. Well, not entirely.

What he can see of the top half of him is broad-shouldered and leanly muscled, covered in deep green skin mottled with blue-green. His bare back rises and falls shallowly with each breath. There’s dark, sopping hair flopped across his face, hiding most of it from Caduceus, though he can see a pair of gleaming, pointed tusks poking from his lower lip. From his hips down, though, is a dark, oily black scaled and finned tail. He can only see the top two feet of it glittering in the sunlight before it disappears into the water.

It’s not until he takes a few more steps towards the man that he sees the dark red blood oozing from a jagged gash that drags crookedly down from his ribs to where his tail vanishes under the water, which is darkening steadily around him before being carried downriver.

At the sight of blood he quickens his approach, still tentative though his concern wins out as he kneels at the man’s—creature’s?—side, setting his basket in the grass next to him, and sees how ragged his breathing is. He pushes the dark mop of hair aside, revealing the ear-like fin protruding from the side of his head not pressed into the dirt and another deep slash across one side of his face, the wound still fresh and dripping blood. His eyes are shut but loosely in the way that tells Caduceus he’s passed out from either pain or blood loss rather than asleep, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. 

“Hang on,” Caduceus murmurs. He carefully rolls the man onto his back, his arm flopping limply into the grass and his head lolling to the side. He stands and hooks his hands under the man’s armpits so he can pull him the rest of the way onto the bank with a grunt of exertion, shocked at how long the fishlike tail is once it’s fully out of the water. It must be at least as tall as he is, sleek and strong-looking, with iridescent fins just below the man’s hips and the very end of the tail.

“Alright,” Caduceus mutters, frowning in uncertainty. He rummages through the pouch he always keeps at his side and pulls out a few strips of clean linen and a small jar of poultice before settling back into the grass again to examine the wound on the man’s side.

“I usually just have this on hand in case I come across an injured animal,” he says, glancing at the still unconscious man as he daubs away blood and begins spreading the poultice of herbs across the cut. “I’m not used to treating anything much bigger than a deer, though. You’re definitely the first… whatever you are.” 

When he’s finished spreading the poultice over the cut, he dresses it with the strips of linen before doing the same to the wound on the man’s face, intending to clean and bandage them more carefully once he gets him back to the Grove. 

He’s trying to figure out how exactly to do that—it’s at least a ten minute walk back _without_ carrying someone twice his weight—when the man stirs, groaning weakly and grimacing. Caduceus takes a cautious step back, watching the man raise a hand to his injured face, eyes blinking open slowly with a confused look as his clawed and webbed fingers touch the bandages.

“What, _ah_ ,” he winces, clutching his side as he tries to sit up.

“Careful,” Caduceus says, reaching out worriedly.

The man withdraws defensively at the sight of him, looking torn between distrust and aggression.

“Who are you?” he says sharply. “What— _ah_ , fuck.” He hisses in pain, grabbing at his side, which is starting to leak blood through the thin bandages.

“You’re hurt,” Caduceus says, “you need medicine. Maybe stitches, I can’t do that here but I can take you back to my home and—“

“No,” the man cuts over him. “I need to—I have to get… it’s not far enough.” He tries to drag himself back towards the water, only making it a foot or two before he flops back into the grass again, unconscious.

“I told you,” Caduceus sighs. He checks to make sure the man is still breathing—less shallow than before which he takes as a good sign—before tying his basket off on his belt and hoisting the man up into his arms. He staggers at the weight, knees almost buckling under him as he steadies himself, grateful that his years of digging graves at least gave him some upper body strength. It does little for his legs, however, and he finds himself puffing and sweating, his legs aching in protest, before he’s even halfway back to the Grove.

He eventually makes it to the clearing where his little cottage is situated on the edge of the fenced in rows of headstones, stepping unsteadily up the front walk and inside. He winces when the man’s long tail bumps against his shelves of delicate teacups, thankfully not sending any of them spilling to the ground to shatter as he makes his way with some difficulty to the bedroom that had one been used by his parents before they left but that he now uses as a combination storeroom and makeshift infirmary for any badly wounded animals. 

He deposits the man onto the large bed as carefully as he can, taking a few seconds to stretch his cramped back with a wince before setting about pulling jars of salve and strips of fresh bandages out. He puts a kettle on to boil, carefully sterilizing a curved needle in the flame before settling in a chair next to the bed. 

Thankfully, the man seems to have slipped into a fitful sleep on the journey back to the Grove, his eyes darting behind his closed lids and his breathing more steady now that his wounds are no longer bleeding freely. When the water is done boiling, he makes a sedative tea, carefully lifting the man’s head from the pillow to tip some of it into his mouth, watching his throat work as he swallows automatically. 

He takes better care cleaning the wounds before stitching up the one along his side. He leaves the portion on his tail open, unsure how exactly to stitch around scales, but still dabs it with a salve along with the cut on his face before wrapping everything in fresh bandages. 

When he’s finished, he gathers up the bloodied linens and now cold tea and heads back into the main room of the cottage. He washes up before bustling about mixing up a light soup using the mushrooms and onions he’d foraged earlier alongside some herbs from the sprawling garden behind the cottage. He brews another pot of tea, this time for himself, while the soup cooks, settling down on the front stoop with a steaming cup and wincing at the soreness in his muscles.

It’s nearing sunset already, the light filtering through the trees fiery orange across the whitewashed walls of the cottage and worn headstones starting to become overgrown in spots with weeds. He makes a mental note to work on it tomorrow. Yawning tiredly, he leans against the door frame and sips his tea, munching on a hunk of bread and listening to the soft rustle of leaves. He wonders vaguely if the still sleeping man in the house behind him will be content with vegetable soup. He thinks he might still have some dried fish he’d made a few months back to feed to a family of foxes that had been hanging around the cottage at the time. Just as he’s trying to convince himself to go hunt for it in his cluttered kitchen, he hears approaching footsteps behind him.

He swivels around and nearly drops his cup at the sight of the man walking unsteadily out of the hall into the kitchen. There’s no tail below his hips now, but a pair of strong legs mottled the same blue and green color as his upper half. The cut that had once run down his tail is instead on his left thigh, the bandages still there but loose on the skin that had once been scales. Caduceus also can’t help but notice that he’s completely naked, feeling his face grow warm as the man—was he always that handsome or did something else change—stumbles towards him.

Caduceus jumps to his feet and hurries to his side as the initial shock wears off, catching him around the waist with one arm and lowering him into a chair carefully.

“Easy now,” he says. He shrugs off the outer layer of his robes and drapes it around the man’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, absently pulling the thin fabric tighter around him. He grips his head, wincing and making a soft, pained noise. He glances around the interior of the cottage. “Where am I?” His eyes, sharp and yellow, land on Caduceus, taking him in with a swift sweep up and down. “Who are you?”

“My name is Caduceus. This is my home.” He moves to pour a cup of tea for the man, setting it in front of him, who eyes it warily. “I don’t know if you remember but I found you on the river bank not too far from here.” He laughs, fiddling with his own cup. “You look a fair bit different than you did when I found you.”

The man merely grunts in response, taking a tentative sip of his tea, seeming assuaged by the fact that Caduceus is also drinking it. 

“How far from the ocean are we?” he says as he sets his cup back down, eyes roving around the cottage again.

“About a day’s walk,” Caduceus replies. 

“Not far enough,” the man mutters, frowning.

“Did you swim all the way here?” Caduceus says incredulously. “With that injury?”

The man takes another drink of his tea in lieu of responding.

“I need to go,” he says decisively, setting his cup aside and pushing himself to his feet only to stagger dangerously before sitting back down hard again.

“You need to rest,” Caduceus says, tucking the robe back around him again. He brushes his black hair streaked with white aside so he can look at the bandages covering half his face. “You’re in no condition to travel. I promise you, you’re safe here.”

The man gives him a long, considering look before sighing in resignation, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“Would you like some soup?” Caduceus offers, smiling as he stands to dish out two bowls from the simmering pot. “It’s just vegetables, I’m afraid I’m not one for meat or fish but I think I might have some dried fish around here somewhere if you prefer it.”

“This is fine,” the man mutters as Caduceus passes him a bowl and some bread. “Thank you.” He swallows a spoonful, pauses, then adds, “Fjord.”

“Hm?”

“My name. It’s Fjord.”

Caduceus smiles even wider. 

“Fjord,” he echoes, chuckling. “Fitting name for someone from the water.”

The man blinks at him then cracks a small, reluctant smile.

“Caduceus isn’t really a fitting name for a healer,” he retorts. 

“I actually run a graveyard,” Caduceus says, gesturing towards the curtained window that overlooks the lines of graves. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of putting you in it.”

Fjord laughs softly. He shivers suddenly, tugging Caduceus’ robe tighter around him.

“Let me find you something to wear,” Caduceus says, putting his bowl aside as he stands. “It might be a little big but I should have something that will work.”

“Yes, that might be best,” Fjord mumbles, seeming to realize how bare he is and flushing copper as he tugs the robes over his lap.

Ignoring the heat in his own cheeks, Caduceus pauses in the doorway to glance back at him, keeping his eyes pointedly on Fjord’s face. “Just wondering,” he says, “do you, um… change back?” He gestures to Fjord’s newly manifested legs and Fjord glances down at his lap.

“At sunrise,” Fjord replies, nodding. “Though… this far from the ocean. I’m not sure.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Caduceus says. He finds an extra pair of robes Colton left behind when he left, promising to Fjord he’ll hem them the next day when he pulls them on and they trail almost a full foot behind him, the sleeves falling over his hands until he rolls them up to his elbows. 

They finish eating in near-silence, Caduceus electing not to prod further than he already has for fear of Fjord closing off entirely. When he sees Fjord beginning to nod off into his tea, he ushers him back into the bedroom to redress his wounds.

“Get some sleep,” he says when he’s finished tying off the fresh bandages. “We can talk in the morning.”

Fjord nods mutely, lightly touching the soft blankets on the bed under him. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, looking up at Caduceus.

Caduceus smiles gently.

“Just rest,” he replies. “I’ll see you in the morning, Fjord.”

Fjord nods again and Caduceus shuts the door behind him as he leaves, hearing the bed shift under Fjord’s weight as he lays down. He tidies the empty dishes and finishes off his cooling tea before climbing into his own bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time before he finally manages to fall asleep.


End file.
